


The Taste That Your Blood Allows

by HarajukuTotoro



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), youtube - Fandom
Genre: M/M, TW: Blood, Vampire!Dan, human!Phil, tw: elements of self-harm but not in a bad way like he's just feeding his lil danpire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:51:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarajukuTotoro/pseuds/HarajukuTotoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil's lived with Dan since he was a teenager, but he won't tell him that. Because Dan died and now he's a completely different person who doesn't remember who he used to be. Phil doesn't mind all too much being a blood donor, though. As long as it keeps the body of his best friend breathing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Alive... But I'm Not Dead.

Have you ever had one of those mornings where you're awake, but you don't really feel like you ever woke up? Like one minute you just realised that you weren't unconscious. Then, for the rest of the day, it feels like you're sleepwalking. That's a little like my life. I know I exist, but I don't remember actually  _living_ , so for the rest of my existence I feel dead.

I'm not the only one. There are others, but whenever two of us cross paths, nothing really happens. I watched an existor meet another existor for the first time once, and they stopped, and they stared. For hours. I wouldn't say either  _froze_ at the sight of another one of their own, because that implies a capability of shock that just doesn't reside in an existor's mind. I suppose it's like being on a very high dosage of anti-depressants. I can feel emotion like my head's under water. It's everything a living person would feel but very dull and diluted. My reality is so monotone sometimes I forget I'm even seeing in colour.

Existors don't have shadows. They don't leave footprints in the snow, nor indents on the grass. When they breathe in winter, it's not visible, like any normal breathing human being. If I try to eat food, the muscles in the back of my throat contract and force me to choke it back out. My eyes don't even need to blink. If I didn't have the natural instinct to do so every few seconds or so I'd probably believe I had no reason to previously.

My name is Daniel James Howell, and I am not alive... But I'm not dead, either. I exist, and for now that is all I know.

That, and I really love the taste of Phil Lester's blood.


	2. Guilty Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka I'd make you breakfast since you had to give up a pint of blood for my dinner but the people at our local supermarket think I have some kind of disease and keep offering me free oranges

Phil wanders in at around 10am with cartoon pyjamas on and a quiff I'm sure many customers of VO5 hair gel would be envious of. "Morning Princess," I call from my spot on the sofa. As usual he ignores my sarcastic affection and plants his ass in front of the fire. I don't know why he always needs warming up. The guy's got fresh blood running freely around every inch of his body. He lifts the mug I left by the fire for him and takes a sip. I watch him, eagerly awaiting his reaction. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brings the mug back down and stares at the beige liquid. He squints, clears his throat, and finally nods.

"Not bad, Howell." He looks up, but the reflection of light against his glasses cockblocks any direct eye contact. I smile regardless, because yesterday he poured the tea down the sink. The day before that he "accidentally" spilled it all over the floor. The day before that he insisted he would try it, then left it until it was cold and complained.

"Are you dying of thirst or pitying me?" My eyes revert back to the rubik's cube in my hands. Heaven knows I hate these things, but I refuse to be outsmarted by coloured plastic. "I'm not so sure."

Phil chuckles and raises his head to the ceiling, stretching his back in front of the heat. "Excuse me if I didn't want to risk tasting something made by someone who can't taste himself." He makes a contented humming sound and I'm convinced at this point. This man was meant to purr.

The remainder of the morning is lost to my frustrated ramblings at the devil's cube and slow whirring of Phil's laptop. Phil owns two laptops, one decorated with colourful stickers, one completely bare. Occasionally he'll use the clean one, but only to watch anime about high school boys playing sports. I don't know why you need a separate computer for that, but I don't ask. He's super protective of that thing.

Around 1 o'clock we migrate into the kitchen. Phil likes to cook, and I like to watch him. Despite the fact that he's lived here for who knows how long, he still pauses in front of the cupboards, holds his hands in midair, and scans every single cupboard before remembering which of them holds the ingredients he needs. He empties the stir fry bag into the pan and starts to stir and toss it. "You know, a friend bought me that "hunk of plastic devil spawn" for Christmas. What if he comes round and asks for it?" 

I snort and lean against the counter next to him, looking idly at the many rows of mugs in the open cupboard. "Then you'll just have to take him downstairs, open the door, and show him what's left of it. And then close the door behind him and not let him back in for getting you such a sadistic Christmas present."

Phil laughs and leaves the pan to make a drink. The kitchen smells like burning vegetables and it's making my nose twitch. "Why don't you ever make, I don't know, super rare steak? Something that actually smells appetising." I say, moving away from the pan and hoisting myself up onto the countertop. 

"Because super rare steak is just raw, bloody meat." He returns to the pan, sipping Ribena. "And that's disgusting." Phil pulls a face that frankly resembles a small child's reaction to being presented with a plate of brussell sprouts. 

An hour later I'm back in the kitchen, washing up the glass, plate and anything else dirtied from lunchtime. I prefer doing the washing up, because watching Phil take so much effort to not burn himself and mix the water to just the right temperature is painfully tedious. I sink my hands in up to my wrists before pulling the plate out and circling it with the sponge. The water is steaming hot and my pale skin tinges a bright red. I've tried to explain it before, how I can feel how scorching the water is and my skin reacting to it. But my nerves are as good as dead, so it doesn't really burn or make me  _feel_ anything. My mind wanders onto existentially philosophical topics, until I reach into the sink and find nothing left. I dry my hands and as I turn to put the towel away, I notice something.

In confusion, I drop the towel and grab at my arm. My eyebrows draw together, mouth agape. I shout Phil but he either doesn't hear me or chooses to ignore me. I shout him again.

"Phil, why is there a cat sticker on my elbow?!"


	3. Zealous Zombie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka phil misses the nights where dan only suffered from sexual frustration, because at least he got something out of that

Phil comes home late, and though I appear to be relaxed with my ankles crossed on the footstool and my arms crossed over a hoodie, my skin is crawling. I haven't drank anything since yesterday evening. Humans can deal with hunger for 30 days, but with existors it is much different. Our stomachs are dried up and dead - our organs couldn't give a flying rat's ass if we eat or drink. Except one, the heart. I'm not dead, my heart beats, but if I don't take in any blood it starts to dehydrate and it feels like I'm drowning and burning at the same time in the worst of cases. Right now, my skin feels uncomfortable to sit in and my vision is starting to slip.

"Welcome home," I say as I look from the TV to Phil with a smile. He's frowning, his fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. Blue-grey circles have slowly surfaced under his eyes, yet he's started staying in bed till later than usual. Midday he seems fine, and I still find stickers stuck to the back of my shirts from time to time, but the evenings are getting worse with every day that goes by.

One minute he's there, the next minute he's gone. The door swings shut behind him. In my instinctive selfishness, my first thought is panic at my pressing thirst. My walking bloodbag has just made a run for it after all. My second thought comes when I reach the top of the stairs, and it is then that I feel concern for Phil. Hell, I can hear his frustration as he tries to wrestle open the front door. "Phil, wait."

"Get out." Phil orders, staring intently at the door handle. His hands are shaking but his iridescent blue eyes are cool and calm, though darker in the lack of light. "I want you out of my apartment. You don't belong here anymore."


End file.
